Post Mortem
by Spike Daft
Summary: A Snatch fanfiction. Bullet Tooth Tony survives the diamond heist and seeks revenge on Avi. Chapter four now up!
1. Chapter One: Playing Opossum

POST MORTEM

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BY SPIKE DAFT

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Author's Note: It seems these days that all my stories are rated "R" for extreme violence. This story is no different, but considering my past reviews this is not particularly a bad occurrence. Since there is next to no fanfic in the fandom of such a great movie, I have decided to lend my talents to further elaborating the already staggering genius of Guy Ritchie's world. Enjoy!

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Chapter One: Playing Opossum

He couldn't feel the floor- he remained where he had fallen when the bullet grazed his temple deeply and sent him reeling down, thoroughly stunned. He didn't feel the other bullet as it tore into his side, but then it really wouldn't have mattered anyway. He'd been through worse- four times worse.

Apparently the idiots from the Drowning Trout thought he was dead, and after some consideration he thought it might be best to pretend just that, at least until he knew what they had planned for him and the corpse that was attracting flies in the corner of the room.

" Get 'em in the car," he heard one of them say, and felt himself half-heartedly lifted, and after a moment's breathless pause, dropped back to the floor, where his head struck with a dull thud which probably hurt but for now felt soft as a pillow in his faraway state. The left side of his head and neck was beginning to feel stiff, and the pain was budding slowly but surely- tight and hot, aching, dull. His side was very wet and was making him feel cold. He'd felt this before, a long time ago. He hoped in a distant way that they would not notice his slight breathing…

" What're you waiting for, Sol?" the voice said, surging forth from the fuzzy shuffling inside the room. " We have _got _to get rid of these fucking bodies."

" We should cut 'em up first, feed them to the pigs…"

" Fuck cuttin' 'em up- that takes too much time. Let's _go_- we'll dump them for the pigs like you said, but we have got to get them out now, before anyone starts to smell this place."

"_That fucking dog._"

" Just get the fucking bodies, okay?" The voice was nearing hysteria. " Fucking _listen_ to me; I'm not talking to a bloody wall!"

" We can only take one at a time," Sol said quietly. " The boot only holds one person. I don't want a body in my back seat. Too risky. No fucking way."

" Fine, fine- just get the smelly one and we'll get rid of him first."

" Fine. Help me with this- get a blanket or something and wrap him up in it… _Oi! _What're you doing? Put that down!"

" It's a blanket, innit? Isn't that what you wanted?"

" My mum made me that blanket. You can't use that."

" I'll use the fucking shroud of Turin if I want to- this is all we have. Get your mum to make you a new one. Would you rather lose your blanky or get caught with a bunch of smelly corpses hangin' round?" A mocking tone now: " '_Oh, hello, officer. Don't mind the smell- you know how the saying goes, "fish and visitors begin to stink after three days"…'"_

A sullen "Fine, just shut up," sealed the deal. 

He heard the footsteps receding to the corner of the room, heard the rustle of fabric as the other body was prepared. He heard them approach him again, and, having begun to regain his senses, thought that it might behove him to hold his breath and play opossum.

" What're we waiting for?!" Sol demanded.

" We're taking this one too, ain't we?" Vinnie hissed.

" No- no room for 'im in the back."

" Then we'll put him in the back seat."

Sol grabbed the lapel of Vinnie's jacket and yanked him close. " You stupid fuck- ain't you been listening to a word I've said? Don't you think it _might_ attract some attention?!"

" Not really, not if he were wrapped proper…"

" No no… It's not worth the risk," Sol said, releasing Vinnie and shaking his head. " Let's get the fuck out of here, dump the fuckin' body, get our arses back 'ere and get the fuck rid of this one!"

Vinnie argued no further. He moved to help lift the other body.

A few moments more and the door shut and locked, and silence came down like a sudden summer shower. 

Bullet Tooth Tony struggled to his feet with some difficulty, muttering, "Idiots," to himself and feeling appallingly low for having come to harm by such absurd circumstances, and what was more, having to stumble his way out of this mess with as much grace a two-legged dog.

There was a phone on the wall by the door- luck was still on his side. He managed a glinting grin in the harsh artificial light of the foetid room, and he picked up the receiver, jarred his brains for the number, and dialled with a bloody finger.

When the voice answered, he said, "Hello, Doug. "

" Tony! But I thought you… I went to the Drowning Trout but you weren't there…Avi came back to get his things, he was without you, said you were dead…he's on his way back to Amer-"

" Fuck the Drowning Trout, fuck Avi, and fuck America. I'm in the back room of the pawn shop- you know the one, dingy fucker on Smith street. I need help."

" I'm getting in the car as we speak. Hold on- I'll be there."

Tony hung up the phone and made sure the door was unlocked, and made his way to the filthy couch, unable to care about the dirt that coated it. He was exhausted, hurting, and furious, saturated with the worst kind of anger- the helpless kind. The kind that in no certain terms promised revenge. 

Tony let out a sigh. He hated bad days.

*

Doug had no trouble finding him, and had brought Susan along, leaving her twin sister to mind the shop. Both visibly blanched at the sight of Tony, which didn't surprise him, considering how shitty he felt. They gingerly helped him to the back seat of Doug's car, though Tony tried to do it as independently as possible, as he was loath to be victim to weakness of any sort. 

" Where's my gun?" he mumbled as the car maneuvered on its course back to the shop. He rested against the door panel, made tacky with blood, and whenever Doug hit a bump his swimming head screamed in protest. He vaguely realized that his blood would probably stain the fabric of the rather expensive car, but in hindsight he realised that he couldn't give a toss.

Doug shook his head. " I don't know. I didn't see it."

" How fucking comforting," Tony hissed, and shut his eyes, falling into the comforting and distant trance that only substantial head trauma could facilitate. 

Susan wisely kept her mouth shut and turned forward again, whispering to her father, " Is he all right?"

" He will be," her father whispered back. " God help my cousin if Tony blames him for this."

Susan didn't reply, but she knew that if that were the case, God would not dare to get in Tony's way.


	2. Chapter Two: Stirrings

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Chapter Two: Stirrings

" A concussion and six stitches? You get shot two times at close range and all you get is _a concussion and six stitches_?" 

" Five," Tony said patiently.

" What?!"

" _Five stitches_, you fat git. Five. That's it. Drop it now, all right? You've forgotten that I want something from you, and it's not a dropped jaw and a fucking list of questions."

Jacob Johnson sat back in his chair, mollified via intimidation, and folded his hands across his substantial gut. His forehead was sweating. " It's been a while since you and I have had any semblance of chat, Tony. I've heard a lot of things. I've heard you were dead, for instance, and here I see you again, and I can't even hold a decent conversation?" He sighed resignedly. "I take it you want to know about someone who came through Heathrow recently… cohort, enemy… drug dealer of yours, perhaps?"

" Don't fuck around," Tony said calmly, drawing his brand new Desert Eagle .50- he was loyal to the model- and placed it across his lap. " I have a name. I want you to find this name in whatever records you keep them in. And I want you to tell me where his flight landed, and I want you to get me there with minimal fuss, if you understand what I mean. That's all. Simple."

Jacob's sweating lip twitched in a repulsive display of nervousness and greed, his attempts at being amiable already decaying and dissolving into humiliation. He took a breath and decided to take his chances. 

" Tony… you know this isn't an easy job," he lied. "There's security issues, and getting you a ticket and past customs… it's not exactly a job I'm looking forward to doing. What have you got to, er, convince me to do this for you?"

" You greedy fuck," Tony hissed, leaning forward and baring his teeth, his left canine glinting dangerously in the half-light. " Breaking out the brass bollocks then, are you? Well, my friend, I'll give you six shiny new bullets unless you give me what I want."

Wisely, Jacob asked for no more penance.

*

Avi got a call from Doug the day after he had returned to New York from purchasing the diamond, which now sat in a lockbox in his office, near him always.

He had been immensely glad to be back among sane persons, most of whom he knew and some of which he trusted, and realised that he had taken all of it for granted. He felt powerful again, not at the mercy of a country as backwards as its roads; he preferred to know exactly where he placed each foot each second of the day, and in England no such assurance could be summoned.

He had been reclining in his chair, feet up as usual, and silently enjoying his homeland, when the phone blared and jerked him out of his reverie. 

The earpiece was seized angrily. " _What?!_" Avi demanded, and then closed his eyes in disgust as Doug's voice came over the line.

" Avi… I have news."

" Whatever it is, can it fucking wait till next year? I just fucking got _back._" _You're the last fucking person I want to talk to_, he felt like saying, but decided that it took too much effort.

" Tony's alive," Doug said simply, and there was silence on the line. After a long while his voice came again, but Avi hardly heard it. "Hello? _Hello_? Avi, are you still there? _Talk_ to me."

" Is he… is he okay?"

" He's hurting, Avi, but he's gone off on some errand, apparently well enough to still be dangerous. He's terribly angry."

" Angry. He's angry." Avi, by now, was cold with shock. His voice sounded dead.

" You shot him, didn't you? And left him?"

" What the fuck else was I supposed to do?! I thought he was dead!" howled Avi, nearly falling out of his seat. The other occupants of the office looked over at him curiously and he gesticulated rudely, telling them in no uncertain terms to mind their own business.

" Either way, there's no explaining that logic to him now. I can't know for certain, but I think he may be after you. So I'm calling to tell you to be prepared, and keep protection around if you value your life."

Avi hung up the phone numbly, not wanting to hear any more. Doug did not ring him back, which was a blessing, but despite his seasons Avi was nervous. He wished Rosebud was around, but even Rosebud looked bumbling and useless in the shadow of Bullet Tooth Tony, which loomed darker and harder than any shadow ever cast that Avi knew of.

This shadow had cast itself over Avi's heart, and it chilled it to its core.

*

Turkish sat back in his new caravan, bought with the money he gathered from selling the diamond that had been pulled from "Daisy's" stomach. He was reasonably content; Gorgeous George was back in action and business was as usual, though perhaps a bit more comfortable as far as the pocket was concerned. And with Brick Top utterly gone; it was a stroke of luck, certainly, and he had to hand it to the pikey: though he wasn't around to fight for them anymore, he had made sure that none of Brick Top's henchmen remained to pester them. And for that, Turkish was bloody grateful.

It was funny, how quickly things changed, but Turkish, struck for once with fortune rather that misfortune, decided against questioning it. Gorgeous had a fight coming up, he had a new caravan, and Tommy had a new dog. 

The dog. Turkish hated the dog, but strangely he had grown on Tommy, who finally persuaded Turkish to keep him, so long as "Daisy" visited the vet. Every time he ran off Tommy was there to catch him again, and to clean up his messes that he insisted on doing on the floor rather than outside, and mend or buy new objects which he chewed, and take him to the vet when he swallowed odd things, and settle discrepancies when he bit people, and yell at him when he barked in the middle of the night, and reprimand him when he stole food…

All right, the dog was, admittedly, a blessing. He had gotten them out of more than one pickle, albeit not willingly; his simple presence or the things he swallowed were certainly not intended to help his human counterparts, but they helped nonetheless. 

__

It's funny, he thought, _how things work out._

Turkish only had to wonder what would happen next.


	3. Chapter Three: Shortcomings

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Chapter Three: Shortcomings

Jacob was, to all the rest of the world, a vanished man.

Unnerved by his encounter with Bullet Tooth Tony, Jacob decided to sink back underground for a while; over the course of the following week after their meeting, he gradually became aware that his employee status frankly wasn't good enough to allow him unsupervised access to what Tony wanted. He was frustrated with himself and his cowardice, and as a consolation decided to hit an illegal boxing match that was taking place the next week. Jacob, being the wise man that he was, figured that he might as well place a bet or two and up his spirits, not to mention his cash level. So happily and confidently he went when the time came, keeping a weather eye out for anyone who might know him, got his tickets, and looked at the bill: "Freight Train" Danny Tetford versus "Gorgeous" George…

__

Gorgeous George? Jacob thought, encouraged. The giant hadn't been in the ring for quite some time, and he had been sorely missed, particularly by Jacob, who knew to bet on him. The man was a winner, plain and simple.

So he placed his bets and set off for the fight, and to a very horrid fate indeed.

*

Bullet Tooth Tony was caught in quite a predicament.

Jacob had failed him; he could not be found. He had skipped work for two weeks and not called in. Co-workers, fortunately, spoke openly about the man, and so Tony was able to tuck away the violence for once and get the information he wanted without hassle. 

He stood at the airport, as nonchalant as he could be, but he noticed the looks some of the attendants and customers gave him when they thought he wasn't looking; apparently, to a small number of people, his reputation had preceded him. But suspicious glances aside, over the course of an hour he had learned some interesting facts about the man he sought.

Jacob, according to one snooty pepperpot, had a gambling problem, and was also manic-depressive. He had probably caught some debt, she reckoned, and ended up in a funk about it.

" Odd blokes, them depressives," she told Tony, tugging fitfully on the gardenia pin she wore on her airline jacket. " They get 'appy all of a sudden, an' then go off an' get themselves into a load of trouble, an' then get into a funk over it an' lock themselves up in dark rooms for days, eating nothin' but sweets and weepin' and not bathin'. It's un-bloody-English, that's what it is. I hear about it in America, and I expect it from Americans; they always were the self-pityin' types, them chaps."

Tony itched to shoot her.

However, though great resolve, he forced himself to stand and listen in hopes of gleaning any sort of information about Jacob that might be uttered. He grimaced his way through a smile and tried to feign as much false interest as he could muster. 

" Anyway, " the pepperpot continued, "Jacob never was the picture of a good Englishman, nor a good employee. Drank too much, he did; I reckon he was pissed every time he came into work. Always sweatin', too; it's from bein' too fat, of course. Too many sweets, and you know how them manic-depressives like sweets. At least you look like you're in shape, young man; stay that way, believe me, or you'll end up with ruined shits an' jackets, what with all the sweat-stains seepin' through. Take Jacob, for instance; like a great greased-up football he was. I'll admit it to yer, lad…. Some days I felt like givin' 'im a good hearty kick…"

Tony found himself genuinely grinning at this last comment, which for some reason struck him as oddly funny. This proved to be a mistake.

"'Ere!" cried the pepperpot suddenly, pointing. "Wot's you got in your teef, young man? Is 'at _gold_ I see? Gold in your teef? Looks like a bullet there!"

Tony stopped smiling, nervous suddenly.

The pepperpot seemed nervous as well now, and her face darkened slightly, eyes glazing with fear. 

" 'Ere now," she said, her voice husky," you ain't that Bullet Tooth Tony bloke Jacob's been talkin' about…are ya? 'Cos I've heard fings about yer…terrible fings…I don't want no trouble, laddie. I'll call security, I will…I bet it's you what killed him, poor lad…"

Tony hissed through his teeth at her, angry suddenly, and spun on his heel, storming out before the woman could get up the courage to act. Another gawker who had happened to notice him stepped curiously into his path, and Tony shoved him backwards with one arm. The man flew backward, shocked at the strength that lay coiled there, and landed heavily on the slick tile floor. People turned to look, just noticing the fray, but the only culprit they could see was the swinging door.

Except one man, a giant wrapped in an overcoat, who had watched the whole conversation from his place in the corner. Silently he followed Tony out into the night.

*

Tony paced restlessly around London, fuming at his situation. He felt like killing someone, anyone; and his side, stitched and bruised, pained him and irritated his already raw mood. 

After the encounter with the airline worker, he stopped in to see Doug the Head, and asked for- well… rather he _demanded_- Avi's address in New York as he sunk down onto the sofa in the office, not noticing Susan who looked in through a crack in the door, interested. 

Doug tried desperately to convince him that he didn't know the address or the phone number. Avi had called _him_, he claimed, and the number was withheld. 

Tony chafed at Doug's hand-wringing, grinding his teeth, but he would not let any harm come to the man or his daughters, by his hand or one of extraneous virtue, and to this resolve he held fast, and felt all the more powerless for it. After Doug was finished explaining himself, Tony sighed moodily, a dark surge of anger beginning to rise with him.

" Perhaps you don't understand my problem, Doug," he said at last. 

" I do understand, Tony, I--"

" You see, Doug, it goes like this: I am called to help your cousin Avi to find a man. I agree, but only after my payment is set at forty large. I take Avi and his bloody sidekick with me, I get the information, I trace the stone back to the Russian, Avi gets the briefcase and subsequently gets the stone. Then, like an idiot, he loses it, but not before his little chase demolishes my car and kills his big dumb girlfriend. But I find the stone again, it is back in his hands, and he fuckin' lets it get taken by a _stupid fuckin' DOG_, Doug…and then what does he do? Eh? Come on, you know this part…"

Doug sighed resignedly.

"_HE FUCKIN' SHOOTS ME!_" Tony snarled, " _AND LEAVES ME FOR FUCKIN' DEAD!_"

Tony paused for a breath, and lapsed back into his normal calm, cool self.

" And," he continued, "I see nothing of the forty large. Not a fuckin' pound. Now, I'm a generous man, Doug, and I'm going to believe you for now, but you know how deeply I'd be hurt if I found out you were lying to me, even if you want to protect your cousin. I understand that, and to be honest, what I want is my fuckin' money, Doug. I could be satisfied with just that, just what was promised to me. Get me that and I might be happy enough with it to leave your cousin alone. Now," he said, rising, " I've said enough, I think. Just consider what I've said, Doug. I'm a fair man, and I expect the same treatment."

With that he rose and left without another word, pausing as he opened the office door to find a startled and blushing Susan. He gave her a glinting smile and flicked her arm in passing; relieved she smiled back. 

Both watched Tony's departure from chosen windows, but they were not the only ones.


	4. Chapter Four: The Russian

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Chapter Four: The Russian

Turkish was worried a bit about Gorgeous George.

He seemed ready to fight, but his jaw was still sore and the rift where it had been broken was still shallow. George, true to his way, did not complain, and tried to ease Turkish's doubts.

" 'S all right, Turkish," he mumbled the evening of the fight, as they sat in the prep room half and hour before the match was scheduled to begin. "I'll be on me guard, and anyway, wot's a few punches to me old Chevy Chase, eh? I been fightin' for a long time, an' nothin' anyone's thrown at me has been able to put me out long. I'm ready to go back. I'll do yer proud."

" You always do, Gorgeous," chirped Tommy as he taped the boxer's hands. " It'll be no different tonight. He always does us well, don't he, Turkish?"

" Sure, Tommy," replied Turkish, but his mind was far away. He drew the whisky flask from his pocket and took a deep swig. He could not keep the tiredness from his voice as he said, " He always does us well. And he'll do us proud tonight, and take 'Fright Train' for a good dance, won't you Gorgeous?"

" Sure I will, Turkish."

Turkish turned to Tommy. " Why don't you make yourself useful and go find Jackson? I want a word with that fuckin' scouser."

Jackson was "Freight-Train" Danny's manager. He was a respectable man, as much as illegal boxing promoters come, and was always fair. Turkish liked him, but hated that he came from Liverpool; some days he could hardly understand what the man was saying. 

That seemed to happen a lot.

*

Jacob weaved his way through the spectators, eyes burning from the smoke in the room. The fighters had not yet entered the ring; that meant it was a bit early, and he had a good chance of finding a decent seat.

He spotted one, near the front, and headed for it, hoping that no one would step up and take it before he could. If Jacob was anything he was spineless, and would not argue if another took something he wanted, but rather would sit in sullen silence cursing the world.

He had nearly reached his destination when a hand roughly grabbed his coat and hauled him backward into a throng of people. He whirled round, his heart thudding in his chest, and looked up into the eyes of a tall, grizzled man with a bald head, who kept a firm hold on his collar and hissed into his face with breath that smelled of whiskey. The people packed round paid no mind; illegal boxing matches always attracted their fair share of scuffles, none of which were important enough to warrant any attention.

" You are Jacob?" growled the man, in a thick Russian accent. His dark eyes bored into Jacob's, and the smaller man felt his bowels turn to water. A gun bulged in the pocket of the other man's coat, plainly visible to his victim.

Jacob searched for a proper reply, made stupid by terror. He contemplated saying that he wasn't, in hopes that he might be let off of a punishment for a crime of which he was ignorant.

" Don't try to fool me," said the man, as though reading his thoughts. "You lie, you die."

" I… I am. What do you want with me?"

" I want you to tell me where to find Bullet Tooth Tony."

Jacob's already abused heart leaped in fright. " I don't know!"

" You have had business with him."

" Yes… Well, sort of. He wanted me to--"

" No explaining," hissed the man, and slipped Jacob a slip of paper with a phone number on it. " You do me a favour, or die. You get word of where I can find Tony, and you call me here, at this number."

Jacob took the paper, nodding dumbly, and gasped when the man yanked him close. The stench of his breath made Jacob wince.

" You don't call me, and I hunt you down and kill you. I know where you live and work, and play. I will find you if you do not do this."

Jacob sighed with relief as he was released, and contemplated asking a price, but the small part of his brain that held any sense of reason blessedly took over, and his mouth remained closed. The man gave a final nod and disappeared into the crowd; as suddenly as he had come he was gone.

*

The Russian's name was Reuben, also known as "The Russian". He was Boris the Blade's brother, travelled to England because of recent events; more precisely, because he wanted revenge. 

His brother had been killed, and he had come to London upon hearing the news. He was as cunning as his brother, if not more so, and certainly as vicious. A week of searching found him a very fat man by the name of Tyrone, who lamented that his mates were in jail, and was glad to divulge information when a gun was poked into his fat stomach. This was how Reuben learned who shot his brother: a local hitman by the name of Bullet Tooth Tony.

It was this legend, whose name was regarded with fear by all but the Russian himself, who would have to pay the price for his crime.

And so he was watched, as closely as Reuben could manage, but the man was slippery; even the seasoned Russian had to admit. But he had not yet learned that he was being watched, which helped to keep things less complicated.

Reuben stayed to watch the fight, his eye on Jacob the whole time, hoping that the fat airline worker might attract his prey.

As it turned out, he was in luck.


End file.
